


Not set in stone

by Tashilover



Category: Sherlock (TV), Terminator - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Gore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-11-21
Packaged: 2017-12-24 03:42:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/934885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tashilover/pseuds/Tashilover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There is no fate but what we make, John."</p><p> </p><p>A Terminator/Sherlock fusion. (On permanent hiatus.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yeaaahhhh.... I just wanted to write this for no other reason than to write it. Heehehehehehehehehehehehe....

As the time displacement slowly withered away, Sherlock found himself in the middle of a cabbage field. He supposed he should feel grateful he didn't land in the middle of a busy street, stark naked and unable to explain himself. The only one who noticed his presence was a rabbit, who was more interested in eating than in him.

The laundry the farmer's missus put on the clothesline was plucked down, the work boots left out to dry were snatched up too. The next field over contained tomatoes and some onions, which became Sherlock's breakfast. He made a mental note to come back to this farm to repay them. If he had time.

Heh. Time.

He hopped over a small stone wall. He had no idea which direction London was, and he stuck out a thumb, hoping to flag down a car.

It was time to find John Watson.

 

 

 

 

John knew someone was following him.

He couldn't pick out who it was, the crowd was too thick, but all his instincts was telling him someone was close behind. He had two options: he could try to shake them off, hide himself in the crowd and scurry away.

Or he could find out who was following him and beat his fucking brains in.

The first option was the safer one. But if John had to admit it, he didn't mind a little excitement in his life.

He had to be subtle about this. If John showed any indication he knew he was being followed, his persuer might be scared off and try again when John's defenses were low again. Best to catch the bastard now when he had no idea John was aware of him.

John slowed his walking, acting like he had something in his shoe. He paused and leaned against a building, pretending to shift his foot around. He lightly gazed off to his left, trying to see in the reflection of the building's windows if anyone was following him or looking at him.

A few people were looking at him, mainly because he stopped and was blocking the flow of people moving, but no one stared with any sort of malicious intent. Maybe there was no one following him and he was being paranoid.

 

 

 

 

Across the street, Sherlock looked on, immensely impressed.

He has seen John Watson in action before. It was always a thrill to watch him as he barked out orders while taking down T-100s at the same time. But to see him here, in an a safe environment, Sherlock expected John to let his guard down. John knew someone was following him, he was just looking in the wrong direction.

As safe as this place was, Sherlock couldn't help but be on high alert. It was so strange to see so many people, happy and carefree, unknown to the horrors that would befall them in a few short years. It was disconcerning, knowing most of them would be dead, and machines would walk over their flesh-stripped skulls without remorse or pity.

Sherlock didn't know if he felt jealousy or bitterness towards these people. The fools. He turned his attention back to John.

John was gone.

Sherlock halted in his walk, his eyes scanning the crowd, desperate to find him. Shit, shit! Did he go into a shop? Did he grab a taxi?

"Why are you following me?"

Sherlock twirled around, one arm raised to defend, the other going into his inner pocket to grab the gun that laid hidden.

John was standing in front of Sherlock, his hands relaxed at his side, but it was a stance Sherlock knew well. If he dared to strike, John would have him on the ground in five seconds flat. It didn't matter if they were in public or not.

Sherlock pulled his arm away from his gun.

"I'm going to ask one more time," John said again, in a much more demanding tone. "Why are you following me?"

No point in beating around the bush. "I'm Sherlock Holmes and I have come from the future. In a few short years there's going to be a nuclear war and billions of people are going to die. The ones who remain are going to be hunted down by killing machines and  _you_ , John Watson, will rise to become the leader of humanity and lead us into victory against them."

John gaped.

He blinked. Closed his mouth, wet his lips, and went back to gaping.

Sherlock motioned his head towards a cafe. "May we carry this conversation in a more private area?"

 

 

 

 

John didn't know how he got here. Well, no, that was a lie, he knew how he got here, he just didn't know why. Any sane person would have ran away if some strange, tall, vampire-man told them he was from the future. Not John though,  _noooooooo_ , he had to go into a cafe with him, order a coffee and talk more about it.

"Future, huh?" John said, pouring a generous amount of sugar into his cup. He needed it.

"I'll be born in a few years," Sherlock said. He took a sip of the coffee, grimaced and put it down, not touching again. "After Judgement Day."

"Okay... what's Judgement Day?"

"It's the day the United States and Russia declared war on each other."

"Oh... why did they declare war...?"

"Not their faults. A super-intelligent computer hacked into their databases and declared war on the whole of the human race. It was easier for them to take out the two superpowers in one fell swoop."

"Uh huh..."

John couldn't tell if this was the greatest conversation in the world or the worst. Why was he even bothering to entertain this man's crazy fantasies? Was John that bored? He must be.

"You're not believing a word I'm saying," Sherlock said. He didn't sound offended, just annoyed.

"Can you blame me?" John said, shrugging. "Honestly, how would you react if someone told you he was the from the future to stop the impending apocalypse?"

"I do have proof, but I thought it was best for you to hear the whole picture before showing my hand to you."

"Oh, you have  _proof_. Goodness me, then you better show me it before I lose all hope in you."

"Not physical proof," Sherlock said. "A phrase given to me by your older self. He told me you would have no other choice but to believe when I say it."

John nearly snorted. What was it going to be? Don't invest in oversea companies?

" _There is no fate but what we make_."

John's good nature grin melted off his face. A cold feeling settled deep in his stomach. "What did you say?"

Though he and Sherlock were the only customers in this local restaurant, it felt claustrophobic. The once welcoming warmth was suddenly too humid to bear and John had to swallow a few times to keep from suffocating.

"It was the last thing your mother said to you, before she died," Sherlock continued. "You were twelve, your sister was nine. Suddenly the world was too big, too frightening to comprehend and you were so scared you were going to lose yourself and your sister to the foster care program. Your mother told you this phrase to remind you history is not set in stone and there's no need to be afraid of the future if you know you have the power to  _change_  it. Your mother died on June 2nd, at 7:34 pm. You know the exact time because you looked at the clock when your mother took her last breath. You spent years fighting the system as hard as you could to keep you and your sister together. You have never told Harry what your mother said. You have never told anyone. Except me."

John threw himself out of his chair, stumbling back. "No..."

Sherlock stood up. "Accept what I have said to you as truth," he continued. "Once you've done that, we can move forward."

"I don't..." The apocalypse. Six billion lives.  **Judgement Day**. "Why me?"

"Because you, John Watson, will one day lead the revolution. And I am here to make sure you live to do so."


	2. Chapter 2

"This is where you live?"

John felt a little offended the way Sherlock said that. Sure, it wasn't the nicest flat in all of London, but it had hot and cold water, enough room for his television and books, and the landlord wasn't a prick. Besides, didn't Sherlock said in his time, he slept mostly on discarded matresses and cots? John would think Sherlock would see his flat like Buckingham Palace.

Immediately Sherlock shoved his way in. He checked the windows, the streets below and the sky above. He checked the kitchen, grimacing at the size. He checked the bathroom, fiddled with the knobs. There was a moment when he flushed the toilet and the noise of it made him  _jump_. John kept his laughter in.

"This place is too small," Sherlock announced, disatisfied. "There's no room to move, the kitchen is not suited for your needs, and your neighbor across the street has been spying on you. We need a better place."

"Uh- what- wait-  _spying on me_?" John moved to the window and glanced out just in time to see the man across the street shutting the blinds in a panic.

John allowed himself to feel violated before switching gears. "You want me to move? Where?"

"South America," Sherlock said.

It took John a second or two to realize Sherlock was completely serious. "I'm not moving to South America!"

"It's one of the few places in the world untouched by nuclear fallout," Sherlock explained.

"Sherlock, I can't. I have a job-"

"Your job is to lead the Revolution-"

"I have responsibilities-"

"Your sole responsibility is to the world-"

"I have a  _family_ -"

"They're going to die anyway."

John punched him. It was a nice good, clean punch across the jaw. Sherlock stumbled back, crashing into the kitchen table, clutching his face like he couldn't believe John actually hit him.

John pointed at him. "You will watch your mouth."

"Noted," Sherlock, gingerly holding his jaw. He righted himself and said, "You still need to move. If I am to train you, we need more space than this."

John could see he had a point. There's been a few times in which John smacked his elbow against a wall just because he took a turn a bit too quickly.

But... "I'm not a rich man," he said. "I can't afford anything bigger than this. Where am I going to get the money for a new place?"

"Humph, money," Sherlock murmured. "I'd forgotten you used to trade material goods for pieces of paper. Not a problem. I saw a money machine dispenser while we were driving. I can simply hack into-"

" _No_."

Sherlock's lips thinned, annoyed that all of his ideas kept getting shot down. "Then there's no going around it: I'll have to talk to my father."

 

 

 

 

Sherlock ensured John he didn't have to come along. He could wait back at the flat while Sherlock got the necessary funds. Except John wanted to see how this would play out. How would Sherlock convince his father, a man who wouldn't  _become_  a father for another seven years, to give him lots and lots of money.

Either this was going to be the best scene in the world or they were going to be thrown out of the room by the cuffs of their neck.

Judging from decor, Sherlock's father was pretty fucking rich. His office was filled with imported furniture, fancy looking books and Tiffany lamps. John was sure if he tore up the carpet, the floor would be made out of marble and the walls out of alabaster.

"What does your father do? Er... did? Do?"

Sherlock shrugged. "He never really explained it to me. He was a politician or a police officer or something. When half of the world burns, those types of titles go right out the window."

"I suppose that makes sense. How are you going to convince him that you are his son?"

"Don't worry, John. I have a plan."

Truth be told, the whole 'I came from the future' bit had not really hit John. A part of him still felt like this was a dream and he was merely along for the ride, waiting to wake up. He believed in Sherlock like he believed in the idea that there were ten billion stars in the universe. Yes, it was truth. Yes, he was not questioning that truth, but the truth was so  _big_ , his mind had yet to comprehend its significance yet. It was going to take time.

The door to the office opened. John almost stood up to greet the man walking through. When he saw Sherlock remained motionless, he sat back down.

Mycorft Holmes stared at the two of them in surprise. He had not been expecting somebody in his office. "Hello," he said in a very  _un_ surprised tone. He certainly thought quickly on his feet. "I was not aware I had an appointment today."

"You didn't," Sherlock said. John suddenly wished he bought Sherlock some proper clothes. He looked like a hobo.

"Alright," said Mycroft, taking his seat behind his giant mahagony desk. "Then may I ask what your business here is?"

Sherlock nodded his head towards John. "This here is John Watson. He is the future leader of the human race. I am Sherlock Holmes, your biological son. We're here because we require large amounts of funds for John's training."

John wanted to  _hit_  him. That's what he was opening with? THAT?

"I see..." Mycroft said slowly. John tensed, expecting to be thrown out. Instead, Mycroft reached over, opened a drawer and pulled out a cheque book. "I can only give a thousand pounds today, otherwise it'll raise too many red flags," he said, scribbling down. "If you need more, I'll simply wire you the money."

He signed the cheque, ripped it out and handed it over.

"Thank you," said Sherlock, taking the cheque. He passed it over to John, went to his feet and started walking out of the office. "Come, John!"

John got up too, confused, staring at between the Holmes'. "Wait," he said loudly. "Wait a damn minute. That's it? You're just going to hand over a thousand pounds to a man who  _claims_  to be your son? No questions asked?"

Mycroft had his fingers intertwined, resting his chin on them thoughtfully. He wasn't even looking at Sherlock. He had his eyes dutifully kept down and said, "I swore if I ever had children... I would name my son Sherlock."

"He named me after a childhood pet," Sherlock said dismissively. "Do not think he gave my name great consideration." He opened the office door, indicated with a wave of his hand for John to leave.

John felt like he was strapped to a meteor. Everything was going by so fast, it was making his head spin. He looked down at the cheque- and indeed, it was a thousand pounds- and started walking out of the office in a dull haze.

"Wait," said Mycroft suddenly, standing up. "Who is your mother?"

Sherlock snorted. "Don't be an idiot."

It seemed like a cruel answer to John. But as they walked out, they passed the secretary coming back from her lunch, tapping away on her phone. John noticed Sherlock gave her a soft smile.

She had his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gore warning for this chapter.

As promised, the next morning when John checked his online bank statement, there were a couple thousand pounds that weren't there before. Nearly twenty thousand pounds more. For a selfish moment, John thought about buying a new jacket or laptop. But Sherlock had looked over his shoulder and said, "The money has been transferred? Good." He slapped down a list. "Buy these guns."

Oh right. John had to prepare for the apocalypse.

He stared down at the list, reading the names of the guns. Most of them were standard weapons. Handguns, shotguns, a few hunting knives and machetes. As the list continued, the names became more elaborate. M-249 Squad Automatic Weapon. M-4 Carbine. Lahti L-39. RSB 80 Plasma Rifle.

John waved the list. "Sherlock, I can't buy these."

"Why not?"

"Besides the fact that most of these weapons are American, I don't think people would feel comfortable knowing a former soldier is buying these types of guns. They'll think I've gone deranged. Also, I'm pretty sure the last weapon you have here hasn't been invented yet."

"Then buy what you can," Sherlock said. "Once you're done, give me your bank card. I need to go shopping."

 

 

 

 

John had given Sherlock a list of his own. John was running out of eggs, milk and bread. Standard, regular stuff really. A few hours later Sherlock came back, his arms loaded with bags, but not one bag contained food.

"Let's see..." John said as he started to take a few items out. "Vinegar. Moth balls. Baking powder. Please tell me you're not planning to cook any of these for dinner."

"They're ingredients for pipe bombs," Sherlock explained. "I'm going to teach you how to make them."

"You do realize I live in the middle of London, right? If one of those bombs set off, I could accidentally kill a lot of people."

"Unlikely. The most they would lose is a limb."

"Because that's so much better."

Sherlock slammed his hands down upon the kitchen table hard enough to make the items on top rattle. "Why are you fighting me on this?" He said. "This is necessary to know! Who cares what those morons think? Most of them will be dead in a few years anyhow!"

"Because I still live here! Do you want me to get arrested? Do you have any idea what would happen if the word  _terrorist_  gets slapped upon my name? Forget about saving the world, I'll spend the rest of my life in a jail cell."

"That's why you need to move to South America!"

" _I'm not moving to South America!"_

Sherlock suddenly grabbed the baking powder, twisted and threw it across the room. The box exploded against the wall, right behind John's television set, dusting everything in a five foot radius in white powder.

"Why the hell did you do that?" John demanded.

"Like you fucking care," Sherlock snarled. "Do what you want, my job here is done."

Still dressed like a homeless hobo, Sherlock stalked out of the flat, slamming the door behind him.

 

 

 

 

It's been a few hours later and Sherlock still hadn't returned to the flat.

John was stuck between thinking Sherlock was absolutely right, and thinking he was a complete nut-job.

The problem was, beyond Sherlock's word, there was no other evidence to go off from. There was no hint of war, let alone a  _world war_  or an impromptu apocalypse. There were no theories of a super computer taking over the world. And John has actually  _been_  at war. And from he's seen, men were still killing men. No machines.

And yet at the same time, John has never spoken about his mother's last words. Not even Harry knew about it. Those words were something John wanted to keep for himself. He repeated them over and over in his head late at night when he and Harry slept at yet another foster family home. There was no way Sherlock could have known about them unless John himself told him.

His mobile rang.

John looked at the number. He didn't recognize it. Usually he ignored unknown numbers but it might be Sherlock on the other line. He answered. "Hello?"

"Hi, is this John Watson?"

"Yes."

"This is Detective Inspector Lestrade." Well fuck. "Mr. Watson, do you know a man by the name of Sherlock Holmes?"

"Er... yes..." Oh God, what happened? What did he do? Earlier, he mentioned about needing to bomb a few key areas if they wanted to stop Judgement Day.

"Are you his guardian?"

"No, I'm his... friend."

"Do you have the phone number to get in contact with his wife? Or his parents?"

"No... he's not married and his parents are dead. I'm sorry, but what is this about?"

"Mr. Watson... Mr. Holmes was arrested tonight for drunken disorderly conduct."

Fuck. John could imagine it all too clear. Sherlock, waltzing into some random pub. Drinking until he was red in the face. Maybe he started a fight. Maybe he started telling complete strangers of the apocalypse and how each and every single one of them were going to die a horrific, fiery death. He and Harry should be friends. "Do I need to bail him out?"

"...Not exactly. But it is probably best if you come down to the precinct."

 

 

 

 

 

John expected to find Sherlock either behind bars or behind safety glass separating them. He expected Sherlock in handcuffs, chained to a chair or something similar of the sort. But when John got there, none of his thoughts were true. Far from it.

Instead what he found was Sherlock, free from any sort of bond or prison, sitting comfortably in a giant chair, surrounded by files. John watched as Sherlock would open a file, read through it very quickly, say something like, "If the brother has the green ladder, arrest the brother," toss it down next to him, pick up another file and start again.

There was a woman officer standing near him, writing down what he was saying. He was going too fast for her and when she told him to "slow down!" for the fifth time, he merely said, "If I slowed down any more, I would be as dim-witted as you. And who wants that?"

Inspector Lestrade pointed to Sherlock. "Is he the real deal?" He asked John in a befuddled tone. "He's not pulling my leg, is he?"

"Huh..." John said.

"I was going to let him go. He was being a nuance, according to witnesses, but he's not a physical threat. Then he saw our problem board while coming in and solved a triple murder by simply pointing out that the murderer  _forgot to turn off the lights_. Please, Mr. Watson,  _who is this guy_?"

Now that was something John would like to know too.

 

 

 

 

"Sit down," John commanded, pointing to the nearest chair. Sherlock huffed. He flopped down dramatically, his limbs spread out and heavy. John took out a small, handheld torch, flashed the light in Sherlock's eyes. "Follow the light."

Sherlock didn't. He merely glared at John, ignoring the beam being dragged across his face.

"You're still drunk," John concluded, pulling away. "You're lucky that inspector let you go."

"Luck had nothing to do with it," Sherlock mumbled. "Uncle Greg doesn't bother with bullshit. I could've pissed in his tea and he would have still let me go after solving ten of his cold cases."

John cocked his head. "Uncle Greg?"

Sherlock stilled. His lips tightened, his cheeks muscles tensed. Two red marks flushed across his ears. "I-"

"You don't need to explain," John said, holding up a hand. "I... get it."

Sherlock closed his mouth but the embarrassment didn't go away. "That's the problem," he said, hissing it out. "You don't  _get it_. You think you do but you're holding yourself back. Whether you like it or not, the  _world is going to end_. What can I say or do to make you believe me with all your heart?"

"Physical proof would be nice," John snapped. "Okay, yeah, you know my deep childhood secret. So what? I need something more than that."

Sherlock's eyes glittered darkly. "You want something more?" He stood up suddenly, forcing John to take a few steps back in surprise. "If I need to prove it to you, so be it."

He proceeded to strip off his coat, tossed it aside, and rolled up his right sleeve. He reached over to the table where he making pipe bombs and picked up a small kitchen knife.

John's stomach went cold. "What are you-?"

With his fist facing up, Sherlock dug the knife into his arm, just below the elbow.

John nearly threw himself forward to stop him, but Sherlock showed no signs of pain. He was barely bleeding. "Oh my god..."

Sherlock dragged the knife around his arm, then down toward his wrist, stopping at his hand. He tossed the knife aside, and as John looked on horrified, Sherlock grabbed the end of his wound, and  _pulled_.

Flecks of blood splattered across Sherlock's chest. John accidentally swallowed the scream he had within him and it nearly choked him. He couldn't look away from the sack of flesh Sherlock held in his hand.

His arm,  _his arm_  was not real. Where bone and vessels and muscles should be, all there was was a metal skeleton. When it moved, when the fingers flexed, the noise were of gears and screws reacting to each other, grinding and shifting.

"I was ten," Sherlock said, turning his arm slowly to allow John to see all sides of it. "When my arm was severed. My father had this attached to me. Living tissue over machine."

He leveled his eyes with John. "Do you believe me now?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The guns listed in this chapter were the same guns used in the first Terminator movie.


End file.
